


my counselor but not my tyrant

by elumish



Series: the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Teen Wolf (TV), The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 14:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11739363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: Jonathan might kill someone, and Stiles doesn’t even know if he would blame him.





	my counselor but not my tyrant

Jonathan might kill someone, and Stiles doesn’t even know if he would blame him.

Fun fact, plane rides suck for both Guides and Sentinels, and transatlantic plane rides with crying babies, a lady wearing too much perfume, and three hours straight of turbulence suck for everyone but especially for Sentinels. Which means also for Guides.

Moral of the story, Jonathan is now wrapped bodily around Stiles, keeping him away from everyone while leaving him with barely enough peripheral vision to watch for their suitcase, which will hopefully show up on the conveyer belt in the next hour or so.

Never check bags. Things Stiles is learning.

With the hand not holding his backpack, he reaches over to pat Jonathan’s arm, saying, “We’ll be out of here soon.”

“You smell like a fucking airplane,” Jonathan mutters back, head tucked down against the back of Stiles’s neck. God knows what the people around them must think. Not that Stiles really cares, but at the same time, great impression to make. “I want to get out of here.”

“And I want to get our suitcase.” Stiles tips his head back a little. “How are we supposed to find the Sentinel Prime, anyway? Blair wasn’t particularly clear on that part.”

“He’ll find us.”

“Yeah, that’s what Blair said.” Jonathan huffs against his neck, the arm around his chest tightening a little. “People are going to think you’re an octopus. You know that, right? Minus a few limbs. An amputee octopus. Who can survive on land. This would be much less awkward if we weren’t in the middle of an airport.”

“This would be easier if you were naked.”

Stiles squeezes the bridge of his nose, which doesn’t make that having been unsaid. “Still in the middle of an airport. And unless you’re planning on starting with the whole, you know, sex thing—”

Jonathan groans. “Your clothes smell like airplane and cheap perfume, and will you please stop turning everything into being about sex?”

“I’m a horny eighteen-and-a-half-year-old.” Stiles sees what he’s pretty sure is their suitcase tumble off onto the conveyer belt, a gazillion miles away. “Just think of how good I’ll be at sex if you start training me to know what you like now.”

Jonathan’s whole body seems to shudder around him. “You make me sound like a burgeoning pedophile. Just stop.”

“Technically it wouldn’t be—”

“Stop, Stiles. Please.” Jonathan sniffs at Stiles’s hair, which he needs to get cut sometime this century. It was so much easier when he just buzzed it every once in a while. “I told you I was fine with you sleeping with people at college.”

“And you lied,” Stiles reminds him cheerfully, then leans forward to hoist the suitcase off of the conveyer belt. “You’re going to have to detach from me if we’re going to get out of here.”

Jonathan is silent for a second, then says, voice low and hot against Stiles’s ear, “We have company.”

Of fucking course they do. Stiles keeps his voice light to ask, “Friendly?”

“We are not a risk to you or yours,” a woman’s voice says from near them, and Jonathan pulls mostly away to face her. Stiles turns as well, pulling his backpack up onto his shoulder so he has one hand free. The woman who spoke reminds Stiles of Lydia without the red hair: competent, attractive, and a half-second away from killing someone with a Molotov cocktail.

It’s been a long few years.

“Who are you?” Jonathan asks, placing himself somewhat between Stiles and the woman. Which they’re going to have words about, but not right now.

“My name is Anthea,” she tells them, and her voice is even and solid and calm. A good guiding voice, even though she’s definitely not a Guide. “The Sentinel Prime sent me to get you. If you’ll follow me.”

“No,” Jonathan snaps. “We need proof.”

“Of course.” She takes out a card from somewhere and hands it to Jonathan. On it reads Office of the Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom.

Jonathan turns it over in his hand, then rubs his thumb over it. He smiles a little. “Clever.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“There’s raised lettering, too faint for anyone but a Sentinel to feel.” He looks at Anthea. “If you put my Guide in harm’s way, I will kill you.”

Anthea shrugs as though to say, fair enough.

“And if you hurt him,” Stiles adds, “I’ll probably break your brain. Not on purpose. Just, it’s been known to happen.”

“So I’ve heard. Please, follow me.”

“We still have to go through—”

“No, you don’t.”

They get through everything else unnervingly quickly, mostly with her flashing a badge and everyone who sees it looking like they’d rather die than get in her way, and soon they’re getting into a car with tinted windows that kind of screams ‘kidnapper’ or maybe ‘president of a small European country who’s not overly concerned with ostentation but is overly worried about being murdered’.

Stiles keeps his bag on his lap with him so he has something other than Jonathan to clutch at while freaking out. The woman doesn’t say anything in the car, instead typing at her Blackberry (because it’s apparently still 1997) faster than Stiles would have thought possible.

They end up at which Stiles thinks is probably the rich part of London, though he’s not really sure how to tell other than the lack of homeless people. The car stops in front of a non-descript building, and the driver opens the door to let them out.

“We will bring you to your hotel following this meeting,” Anthea tells them once they’re all out of the car, “so there is no need for you to take your suitcase.”

“Or you’re planning on killing us and want to make it easier to dispose of the evidence.”

Jonathan makes that noise like when he wants to roll his eyes but is too mature to. “The location of our suitcase won’t make a difference if that’s the case.”

He’s probably right, which is annoying. “Okay, fine.”

They head up into the building, Jonathan keeping one hand against Stiles’s side next to the edge of his backpack. He’s still not particularly steady after the plane ride, but he’s holding himself together because they don’t really have another choice.

They don’t need to show ID when they walk in, but they both need to go through a metal detector, and a guard rifles through Stiles’s backpack. It’s weird; he can’t tell what kind of place this is. There are no signs or indications that this is a business or an office building or an S/G Center, but houses don’t usually have metal detectors and guards to get in.

Once they’re through and Stiles has his backpack back, Anthea leads them up a flight of stairs and down the hall. It’s all dark wood and classy finishings, and somehow Stiles thinks it looks very British.

Anthea stops at the last door to the right, knocking once before opening it and stepping aside. Jonathan heads in first, somehow managing to both enter first and stay between Stiles and Anthea, because he’s ridiculous, and then Stiles follows.

The man standing up behind his desk exudes Sentinel in a way that Stiles probably would have noticed even before he came online. He’s otherwise an unassuming man, tall and slender with a receding hairline, dressed in a three-piece suit, but to Stiles’s now-discerning eye he puts of a presence that might actually be stronger than Jim’s.

Stiles thinks he might actually choke a little. “Holy shit,” he says before he can help himself, “you’re a terrifying human being.”

The man smiles slightly. “I could say the same about you.” He looks at Jonathan. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I am the Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom.”

“No, you’re—” Stiles waves his hands at Mycroft (which, what the fuck kind of name is that), trying to figure out how to explain how goddamn terrifying Mycroft feels. “I mean, one, you should probably be crazy by now, but that’s not even the problem right now, because you feel like drowning or something, and not the falling asleep kind of drowning, but the flailing and trying not to die kind of drowning, and high-level Sentinels feel good, but I feel like you wouldn’t even feel good, because you’re too—” He wiggles his hands.

Mycroft looks amused. “Anthea, you can go.” His eyes go to Stiles. “I can honestly say that I have never gotten that reaction before. However, you are strongest known Guide, so I suppose some variation in experience is to be expected. Shall we sit?”

After a briefly unhappy look from Jonathan, they all end up sitting, Stiles’s backpack on the floor against his legs.

“No offense,” Stiles says once they’re sitting, “but how are you not crazy by now? I mean, given that you’re probably the strongest Sentinel I’ve ever met by, like, half an order of magnitude, and you’re unbonded.”

“I have very good control,” Mycroft says, “and a strong motivation not to be tied to another person.” He looks at Jonathan. “Before we begin talking, I must first inform you that I am aware of your association with Stargate Command, as well as your…unique creation.” Jonathan stiffens in his chair. “This is not a threat. I was at the original meeting where you revealed the existence of the Stargate.”

Jonathan blinks at him. “I don’t remember you there.”

“That was rather the point. I am, however, regularly kept up to date on matters involving the program.”

“You probably know more than me, then.”

“I am sure I do.” Mycroft minutely adjusts a piece of paper on his desk. “Now, you are here so that we can discuss—”

His head snaps up, and a second later the door bursts open and a Guide strides in, followed closely by a Sentinel and another Guide, who—oh. Oh, that was interesting.

The first Guide looks at Jonathan, snaps, “Boring,” then turns his attention to Stiles, who’s twisted around in his seat to see him. “You, you’re interesting.”

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

The Guide—Sherlock?—waves a dismissive hand, eyeing Stiles like he’s a particularly interesting pet, or a cat that’s miraculously actually playing a piano. “The strongest Guide in the world, in your office? Why would I ever pass that up?” He frowns, and Stiles feels a little push of…something. Not malicious, but there.

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you’re trying to do isn’t going to work, and it’s not a game you want to play with me.”

Mycroft and the Sentinel snap, “Sherlock,” at the same time, and he grins.

But it’s the other Guide who says, “That’s bloody assault, you know. I could bring you in for that.”

Stiles shakes his head, standing so he doesn’t have to keep twisting around like this. Jonathan stands with him, one hand latched around Stiles’s wrist. “Unnecessary,” Stiles tells him. He offers a hand to nobody in particular, mostly just to see if anyone takes it. “Stiles. Nice to meet you.”

After a second, the Sentinel steps forward and shakes his hand, twitching a little as he does so. Stiles gets that a lot. He’s not particularly offended by it anymore. “John Watson.” He glances at Jonathan. “Sentinels don’t usually—”

“If I tried to stop Stiles from shaking hands, I would spend my whole life doing only that.” Jonathan shakes hands with him as well, and doesn’t do any of that weird Sentinel posing bullshit. “Jonathan O’Neill.”

“Bo-oring,” Sherlock drawls again, stepping up close into Stiles’s personal space. “Why bother being a trainee, when you’re a stronger Guide than the Guide Prime? Concerned nobody would take you seriously because of your age? Eighteen, first year of university. Originally from California, but you’ve spent time in the Pacific Northwest. Washington state.”

“That would be more impressive if I wasn’t wearing a Rainier hoodie,” Stiles tells him, “and if I hadn’t been in the news.”

“How does an eighteen-year-old who’s never been the victim of child abuse end up with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? I would speculate sexual assault, but—”

This game is suddenly a lot less funny, and so Stiles snaps, “I’m guessing the drug use stopped when you were bonded, but it must be hard to keep it quiet now that the bond is gone. Opioids usually work best, because they depress the system, but even those don’t work forever.” Sherlock flinches away from him a little, and Stiles would feel worse about it, because he’s not fucking interested in talking to this stranger about home. Especially not given that they just barely got through the last fucking thing before he flew out here with Jonathan.

“Oy,” John says. “Lay off it, both of you.”

“If your ex-bondmate would stop trying to bait me about my PTSD, I’d consider it.” Stiles scrubs at his face, because he’s exhausted and the tension in the room is only ramping up his own anxiety, and the bleed-through from Jonathan isn’t helping either. “Look, now is probably not the best time for all of us to have this conversation. Mr. Holmes, could we reschedule or something? You’re welcome to bring your—” He waves his hand in the direction of the still-unnamed Guide.

Said Guide blinks at him. “Why would he bring me?”

Mycroft sighs. “Gregory—”

Stiles claps his hands together. “Great, more fun chats we can have together. But I’d rather not commit assault in a foreign country and honestly don’t trust my control enough right now not to, so I’m going to leave you with Mr. Watson and Sherlock before I knock him on his ass.” He looks at Jonathan. “Ready to go?”

“The moment we got here.”

“Of course,” Mycroft says. “I apologize for my brother’s impetuousness. Would you be available tonight for dinner?”

His brother? But right now Stiles doesn’t really care, so he just looks over at Jonathan, who says, “Dinner would be fine.”

“A driver will pick you up at seven.”

\--

Jonathan waits until they’re alone in their hotel room before asking, “What the hell was that about?”

“Stiles drops his backpack next to the bed, then flops down across the comforter. “Which part? How terrifying the British Sentinel Prime feels, or the fact that someone burst in and started interrogating me on my mental illness?”

Jonathan sits down next to him, resting a casual hand on his chest. “I was actually talking about the Guide that you think is connected to the Sentinel Prime.”

“Oh.” Stiles shrugs one shoulder. “You know how I’ve been working on feeling the difference between surface bonds and regular bonds? They have something less than a surface bond, but still…something. I couldn’t really tell, but it felt like a default grounder or something, like the Sentinel Prime grounded on him so much his senses defaulted to finding the Guide when he’s around.” Stiles shrugs again. “There’s something there, but I can’t read minds, so I don’t really know.” He levers himself upright. “You’re still on edge from the flight.”

Jonathan looks at him. “You can feel that through the bond?”

“Enough. And I know you. If we’re having dinner in a few hours, I don’t think naked is a good idea, because I don’t really want to smell like arousal, but if you want I can strip down to my boxers.”

“I’ll do it, if you don’t mind.”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

Jonathan’s hand settles at the bottom of Stiles’s sweatshirt, pulling it up and over Stiles’s head. Stiles’s t-shirt slides up with it, and Jonathan’s hands brush against the bare skin of Stiles’s chest, making him shiver.

“Sorry,” Jonathan mutters as he discards the sweatshirt and goes to work pulling off Stiles’s t-shirt. Both of them he drops on the floor.

“Not a problem.” Stiles lets himself be maneuvered to lying down on the bed, lifting his hips up obligingly so Jonathan can slide off his jeans and drop those on the floor as well. Jonathan’s hands settle on Stiles’s hips.

“You’re not doing well not smelling like arousal.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles says, wriggling a little as Jonathan’s breath and then his tongue touch Stiles’s rib cage, “Either you do something about the arousal or you ignore it.”

“This doesn’t have to be sexual,” Jonathan reminds him, starting his touch-mapping trek up Stiles’s sides.

Stiles sighs, because they’ve had this argument before. “A man I am sexually attracted to is touching me intimately. If you don’t want to have sex, that’s fine, I’m respecting that, but at the same time it’s not fair for you to get mad at me for getting aroused.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

Stiles shifts out from under him, pulling away, because this is a conversation he needs to have face-to-face. “Then why did you bring it up? What’s the point in bring up something that will only get both of us frustrated?”

Jonathan’s expression twists. “You don’t think it’s difficult for me, feeling attraction to someone who’s barely an adult and mentally nowhere near my age?”

“I get that, but we’re playing this bullshit will-we-won’t-we game, and ‘I don’t know if I’ll be ready’ is an acceptable answer, but then we figure out how to make it not an issue. Because you get mad when I make jokes about it, then bring it up when I’m trying to be mature and ignore it. So either give me a timeframe or give me a way to deal with it, because right now this isn’t working.”

When Jonathan doesn’t say anything, Stiles rolls off the bed. “I’m going to go shower. Try to have your shit together by the time I get back, or at the very least don’t take it out on me if you don’t.”

\--

By the time Sitles finishes showering, he’s less angry than he was. Some of it, he realized while debating getting himself off would make things better or worse, was residual anger from the shit show with the Sentinel Prime, along with tension bleeding through across the bond. They’ve gotten better at blocking, but when they’re tense or tired the block tends to not work as well.

It’s not that it’s not still an issue, because it is, but usually he’s more okay with it, or at least at it.

It’s okay that they’re not having sex right now. It really is. But Jonathan tends to blow hot and cold in how he deals with it: sometimes he’s fine with innuendo or comments, and some days he acts like he’s one step away from a child molester, which is particularly frustrating because Stiles is a fucking adult.

And yes, okay, it’s kind of weird that Jonathan is sort of super old, but most of the time he doesn’t act like it, and anyway, they’re bonded. They’re stuck together for life.

He heads out to find Jonathan sitting on the side of the bed, head bowed, staring down at his hands. Stiles wants to go curl up against him, rebuild both of their bonds, but he needs to know what the deal is first. So he stops a few feet away and asks, “Are we okay?”

Jonathan lifts his hands to scrub them through his hair but doesn’t look up. “I don’t know. Are we?”

Stiles sighs. “Look, this isn’t my problem. I’m fine with whatever we do, but I need to know what that is, and I need you to stop lying to me. If you’re not okay with something, tell me you’re not okay with it, but don’t tell me something is fine and then flip the fuck out when it happens. It’s not fair to me.”

Jonathan rubs his forehead with one hand, then finally looks up at Stiles to say, “I don’t want to have sex with you right now. When you smell like arousal, it makes me want to have sex with you.”

“Okay.” Stiles shrugs. “Then you can’t touch me when I have my clothes off.”

Jonathan starts to get to his feet. “Stiles—”

“I’m being practical. If you touch me when I’m mostly naked, I’m going to get aroused. It’s going to happen. So if you can’t deal with me being aroused, you can’t touch me when I’m not wearing clothes.” Speaking of that, he’s only in a towel, so he heads over to his suitcase to grab something to change off. That’s the problem with dramatic exits; they don’t leave time for grabbing essentials before you leave.

He heads back to the bathroom to change, and when he comes out Jonathan is still sitting on the side of the bed. Jonathan looks up at him. “I’ll deal with it.”

Stiles blinks at him. “What?”

“The arousal. I’ll deal with it. It’s my problem, not yours, and I—not being able to touch you, not being able to have that much contact, it would be worse than dealing with the arousal. But just—don’t push it. Please. I set my boundaries and want to stick to them, and I want you to respect that.”

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it again and nods. “Okay. I can do that. But be patient with me, too. I’m not—I’m still a teenage guy.”

“Okay.” Jonathan opens his arms. “Please.”

“Yeah, of course.” Stiles walks over to curl up on Jonathan’s lap; he tips over backwards so they’re laying down on the bed, Stiles against his chest. “Are you okay?”

Jonathan is silent for a while. Finally, he says, “It was…easier with Daniel.” Stiles stiffens. “This isn’t against you. Daniel and I were equal, or equal enough. He wasn’t below me in military rank, and we were both adults. There aren’t that many years difference between us in physical age, less than between Daniel and other-me, but we were both adults when we met. We both had lives, we both had set places in the world. Who you are, who you’re going to grow up to be, will be determined by me, or at least influenced by me. That puts me in an uncomfortable position. What you said at the airport, about me training you—you’re stubborn, but I know how to work people. I know how to push people. I have power and influence over you that I’m hoping to avoid taking advantage of.”

Stiles sighs against Jonathan’s chest. “I can take care of myself.”

“It is my honor and responsibility to take care of you, as your Sentinel. And you’re—you’re young. That’s not a criticism, it’s just a fact. You have to grow up, and I…don’t. And I don’t want you to have to constrain all of your actions based on me, including who you have sex with.”

“Would you be able to deal with knowing I was having sex with someone else?” Jonathan goes rigid. “Would you be able to deal with not knowing if I was having sex with someone else?” When Jonathan doesn’t say anything, Stiles sighs. “So I won’t do it. People—people make compromises.”

“I don’t want you to have to make compromises.”

“People make compromises, Jonathan. It happens. You know this. And you don’t—you don’t need to protect me from making my own decisions. I’m an adult.”

“I know.” Jonathan lets out a slow breath. “I know.”

\--

“So,” Greg says. He hasn’t looked at Mycroft—bloody Mycroft Holmes, halfway to the bane of his existence—since the kid left the office. He’s not even a hundred percent sure who the kid was. “The…Guide thinks we’re…something?”

Mycroft sighs, adjusting his cufflink. Greg is in front of some restaurant he definitely can’t afford, because Mycroft asked him to come, and because he’s curious as to what the hell is going on.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Mycroft says after a moment, “is the most powerful Guide in the world. There are suspicions that he was number two, but having been in the same room with him, I can say for certain he is the strongest.”

That’s fascinating, if not a bit terrifying that that gangly teenager is arguably the strongest person in the world. Greg had felt the strength of the kid, but he’s not strong enough to differentiate at that high a level. Seventy or eighty or above, it all just feels the same to him. But more importantly, “That’s not actually the question I asked you.”

Mycroft sighs again. He doesn’t look particularly happy, but he rarely looks happy. Less-perturbed is usually as good as it gets. “When in your presence, I ground my senses on you. Mr. Stilinski may have been able to sense the slight, tenuous bond that formed from that.”

Greg gapes at him, because what the fuck. Mycroft has been—that doesn’t— “I’m low thirties, and you’re the Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom. What good could grounding on me be?”

Mycroft’s lips press tight, and then his head pokes up and he says, “They’re here.”

Greg turns to see a car pull up to the curb; a moment later, the gangly boy and the young man who moves like he’s military climb out of it. The kid’s face breaks into a wide smile when he spots them. “You did come. Whoever you are.”

Greg offers him a hand, because Sentinels generally don’t object to Guides touching other Guides. Their shields are similar enough, and there’s no competition. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

“That’s—” Stilinski squints at him. “Above Detective Sergeant? I was reading about this before, because my dad’s a cop, but then I got distracted by reading about Pakistani law enforcement, and then I drank twelve cups of coffee, and none of you care about this, so I’m going to stop talking about it.”

Greg presses down a smile, reminding himself that this is the most powerful Guide in the world. “DI is above DS, yes. Your father is also police?”

“He’s the sheriff, actually, but I’m probably going to try to become a detective.” He glances at his Sentinel. “Maybe.”

The Sentinel puts his hand on the back of Stilinski’s neck, and Stilinski leans his head back, eyes fluttering closed briefly. Greg looks away, feeling like he’s watching something unbearably intimate.

The thing about spending an ungodly amount of time with John and Sherlock and Mycroft is that intimate moments are virtually nonexistent, as are most shows of emotion. Seeing these two people together is discomfiting.

And, if he’s being honest to himself, he’s a little bit jealous. Low-level as he is, he has no real need for a Sentinel, but he grew up with those stories like everyone else. The tales of those perfect matches, of the innate intimacy that comes from a connection like that.

“Shall we go in?” Mycroft suggests, then smoothly leads them into the restaurant. The maître d’ leads them to a private table in the back, offering them menus and then disappearing discreetly.

Once they’re seated, Stilinski looks down at himself, then says, “I don’t think I’m dressed well enough to be a waiter here, much less eat here.”

His Sentinel rolls his eyes, while Mycroft says, “Please don’t concern yourself with how you’re dressed.”

Stilinski looks up at him. “Should I concern myself with your brother popping out from underneath the table and asking me if I’ve been raped again?”

Mycroft grimaces. “I apologize for that. Rest assured, he will stay far away from this meal. He can, unfortunately, be aggressive when interested in a topic.”

That’s an understatement, but Greg manages to hold his tongue on that. Instead, he says, “If he shows up, I’ll figure out something to arrest him for.”

Mycroft shoots him an irritated look. “I would prefer you didn’t do that.”

Stilinski snorts. “Do you ground on him more when you’re angry? That’s kind of hilarious, actually.” He looks at his Sentinel. “Do you do that?”

His Sentinel’s lips press together in what looks like amusement. “Emotion can increase the need for grounding. You know that.”

“I do know that. I come to England and forget everything Blair taught me. He’ll be so disappointed if I ever tell him, which I won’t, because I have a highly-evolved sense of self-preservation. Hence, you know, bonding.”

“Our bonding had nothing to do with self-preservation.”

“Fair enough.” Stilinski grins at them. “I’m not sure how well-known this story is, but we bonded when I was seventeen as strangers because it was the quickest way to get him down from DKC.”

Greg feels his eyebrows go up. “Seventeen?” That’s young to bond, particularly to an adult.

“It was consensual,” Stilinski says defensively. “Just unplanned.”

“Shall we hold off on Sentinel-related discussions until we have ordered?” Mycroft asks.

They all look at their menus, and then Stilinski blanches and says, “I hate to be the awkward college student, but I’m, you know, a college student, and this is—”

“You are all my guests,” Mycroft says smoothly.

“Oh, thank God,” Stilinski breathes, then looks back down at the menu. A moment later, he says, “Oh hey, I’m old enough to drink here.”

“The first time you see how you react to alcohol,” his Sentinel says, “should probably not be with the most powerful Sentinel in Britain.”

“Fair enough.” Stilinski looks at Greg. “Does alcohol do wonky things to you? We have a Guide in our town, and he loses his head every time he drinks. Starts emoting all over the place which, yeah, is kind of a danger for me.”

Greg shakes his head. “I’m nowhere near strong enough to have a reaction.”

“Lucky.” Stilinski drums his fingers on the table, twice through, then stops when his Sentinel puts his hand over Stilinski’s. “Right. Sorry. I’m nervous, because you’re actual adults, and competent, and I’m trying not to emote all over everyone because that would get messy, and also I have possibly had about twice as much caffeine as I should consume in a day. Oh look, a waitress, please save me from talking.”

Once they’ve ordered, Mycroft looks at the Sentinel and says, “Mr. O’Neill, though you haven’t said much, it is generally standard for Sentinels to interact primarily with each other. As you will together be the Prime Pair of the United States, would the standard protocol be for me to be in contact with you or Mr. Stilinski?”

“Either,” O’Neill says. “Stiles is getting a lot more technical training than me, but I have more of a strategic and military background, so it’ll just depend on what you’re looking for. I’ve found that trying to keep Stiles from doing things tends to backfire on me.”

“I once spent a whole day shaking hands with Sentinels,” Stilinski says proudly. “And there was only one fight. Which, arguably, wasn’t my fault.” He glances at O’Neill. “I mean, arguably, it could have been my fault, but let’s not argue about that.”

O’Neill gives him a fond look, then turns his attention back to Mycroft. “I’m not fond of how much interaction Stiles has with other Sentinels, but as he likes to remind me, it’s not my place to decide who he does or doesn’t interact with.”

Greg’s eyebrows lift, and he finds himself in the not-new position of being totally flabbergasted. “That’s a surprisingly progressive view, for a Sentinel.”

Stilinski smirks at O’Neill. “He has you there.”

“Sentinels are known for their possessiveness; it’s not just me.”

“Sentinels get away with shit because they can, because everyone says, oh, they’re just possessive, that’s normal Sentinel behavior. But Sentinels do actually have better control than that.” Stilinski glances at Mycroft. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Holmes? Or you wouldn’t be able to deal with Detective Inspector Lestrade being a Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft gives Stilinski a cool look. “DI Lestrade is not my Guide.”

“But he’s something, isn’t—”

“Stiles.” O’Neill touches his wrist. “Boundaries.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“ _Stiles_.”

Stilinski swallows. “Right. Sorry. Not the point.” The waitress appears with drinks, and Stilinski smiles at her. Once she’s gone, Stilinski says, “I am, admittedly, slightly punch-drunk, which is part of the reason my filter is basically gone.” He takes a drink of water; his expression settles into something more mature. “I will be the Guide Prime of the United States once Jim and Blair retire. I’m young. I understand that. I’m also powerful, and by the time I finish my training, I will be very will competent. Part of the reason I’m here is to get a feel for you. As it stands right now, Jim and Blair don’t have a strong political connection with you or with most Sentinel or Guide Primes outside of North America. I will probably want to change that. Allies matter.”

Mycroft examines him for a moment, then look O’Neill and asks, “And you, Mr. O’Neill? Are you too looking for allies?”

O’Neill gives Mycroft a look like he doesn’t think he’s too bright. It’s probably not a look Mycroft gets too often. “Stiles and I are together.”

Mycroft nods. “Mr. Stilinski, you are equating your strength to your use as a good ally. With greater strength, however, comes a greater need for control. I know what happened in California.”

Stilinski smiles. “Fair enough. On the other hand, you don’t seem to be able to control your own brother, so I’m not sure how I could expect you to control the entire S/G community of the United Kingdom. Maybe it’s your use as an ally that I should be questioning.”

“My brother is a special case,” Mycroft says carefully.

“So was California, assuming you’re talking about the time I emotionally leveled seven city blocks while being held hostage.” Stilinski stops when the waitress returns with food, thanking her, then says after she walks away, “The way Sentinels and Guides are treated, and interact—I don’t like it. I don’t like the level of assumed power and responsibility Sentinels have over their Guides.” He looks at Greg. “I don’t like that, should Mr. Holmes bond with you, everyone around you would assume he has the right to decide who can touch you, who can be in the same room with you, what job you can do. You would be assumed to adjust your life to him, rather than the other way around. I am the most powerful Guide in history, and the world would expect me to change for Jonathan rather than the other way around. I plan to change that.” He looks at Mycroft again. “Now, you can be my ally in this, or not. You have a vested interest in keeping society the way it is. If you ever bond, you won’t have to give up nearly as much as your Guide will. But if you fight me on this, I won’t be a comfortable enemy to have. Even from across an ocean.”

Greg wants to gape at the kid, and manages to hide the impulse by spearing a vegetable and shoving it in his mouth so nobody can see how shocked he is. People don’t talk like that; it’s accepted that Sentinels have a level of instinct that requires certain adjustments.

Mycroft, though, is looking at Stilinski the way he looks at a particularly interesting challenge. “It has been a number of years since I have communicated in any depth with the Prime Pair,” he says finally, “but if my memory is correct, they do not share that opinion.”

Stilinski shrugs dismissively, attacking his food with the aggression Greg remembers from uni, when turning down free food was sacrilege. “We have differences of opinion; it happens. The transition will happen. Things will change. Any internal disagreements between Blair and I won’t impact how we deal with the public.”

“I will consider your proposal,” Mycroft says. “Now please, enjoy your food before it gets cold.”

“Thanks,” Stilinski says, then shoves what looks like a quarter of a chicken in his mouth.


End file.
